Blade of Peril
by TheRealSokka
Summary: Slave Knight Gael's story, embedded in the history of Lothric- at least it's supposed to be. I don't know how well this is going to work out; it's somewhat in the experimental stage for now. Input greatly appreciated.
1. Awake

**Awakening**

First there was pain.

A spear in the gut was what killed him. A slow and painful way to go. The enemy soldier didn't even watch him die; he didn't have the time in the middle of the battle. Gael soon lost sight of him, as people were falling to all sides. Likely he had died there, too.

Red and gold was in his dimming vision as he was bleeding to death. The once proud banner lay in the mud, where the standard bearer had dropped it, only a few feet away. It used to be a welcome sight, but now all it evoked was folly; the follies that had lead him here. Both his and his commander's. The colours blurred as his thoughts were growing hazy, turning into feverish images of home. Regret was the last thing he felt.

Then there was darkness. He had never much thought about what happened after death. It wasn't so bad, really; the absence of light didn't matter too much when there was nothing to see. He was vaguely aware of having these thoughts even as he was drifting through the black, but he didn't question it; there was nothing he could do anymore.

And then the light was back. The world became a dull grey instead of deep black. Gael didn't react: He stared up at the stone ceiling, unmoving. Gradually, he recognized what he was looking at; he became aware that he was lying on his back. Then he realized that he was breathing. But he was dead. Dead didn't breathe.

He thought of clenching his fingers. They responded. That wasn't right; he shouldn't be able to feel this. He closed his eyes again; back to darkness. But now that he had seen real light again, he couldn't just ignore it. Was it real what he had seen? It had looked real. Even now he could feel the cold surface he was lying on. _He_ was cold. Uncomfortably cold. He came to the conclusion that he was still alive. It felt too real to be some form of afterlife. Had he somehow survived?

Gael opened his eyes again. There was the grey ceiling. It didn't tell him anything; it could have been anywhere. He tried to sit up, and after a moment his muscles performed the required actions. He saw a bare room; the walls made of ornament less stone, with no telling what building it belonged to. But the entire place was packed. Gael blinked: There were rows of stretchers, with human figures lying on them. Most of them wore breastplates and helmets, just like he still was. They lay completely still and silent.

"Ah, we've got another one."

Someone in a brown robe approached his corner of the room. Gael blinked again and squinted at a very-alive, dark haired man. With a quill and piece of paper, he looked bizarrely like a clerk. It was such an odd and unexpected thing to see that Gael finally fully accepted that what he was seeing was real. It was impossible that he could have made up this happening to him.

The man stopped at his stretcher. "You name, please?" He didn't so much as look at Gael. When he didn't receive an answer, he glanced up and pointed with his quill: "Name?"

"G- Gael." The word came out croaked; it felt like he hadn't used his voice in days. He coughed up dust, cleared his throat and coughed again. The clerk mumbled and flicked through his paper. Gael saw multiple lists, with most of the entries crossed out. He made another attempt to speak: "You…Wh-ere am I?"

But the man with the list wasn't paying him any attention any more: He was on his way to another soldier, who had sat up straight on his stretcher and was staring around, wide-eyed. Now that Gael was looking around, he saw several empty stretchers. A suspicion began to assert itself in his mind, but as quickly as the thought had come, he supressed it. It couldn't be.

On the wall to the left was a small window, the source of the dim light in the room. Gael stood up carefully and made his way over there on trembling legs. A breeze of fresh air hit him as he looked outside. It wasn't much brighter than inside: He saw an overcast sky, with clouds as far as he could see. Rain was falling on the red shingle roofs of multiple towers, rising above a stone wall that blocked the rest of his vision. Figures were patrolling the wall in the rain; armoured figures with long, red capes.

He stepped back. _Lothric_. He was back in Lothric.

There was a commotion. When he turned, he saw the clerk on his knees, holding his chin. The man who had just woken up was hurrying to the door, stumbling over the bodies. Then a pair of guards, whom Gael hadn't noticed before, caught him under both arms. As he began to struggle, one of them hit him on the head with a shield. They carried him out, twisting in their grip.

Gael remained motionless. His numb was numb with the realization what was happening. The clerk came back, now with a bloody lip, and glared at him: "You. Leave quietly and report to your quartermaster. Now."

He obeyed. In the corridor outside, he pushed past several more soldiers, who were watching him alertly. Lothric soldiers, just like he was, but he felt as if they would attack him if he so much a moved the wrong way. He had to be imagining things. But he kept walking, without glancing sideways, until he reached a second, smaller room. Inside, a man was brooding over stacks of paper, with two guards standing behind him. They grasped the hilts of their swords when Gael entered.

The quartermaster looked up: "Ah, another one. Good." He took up a list similar to the clerk's: "What is your name, soldier?"

"Gael." he answered for the second time. He stared at the quartermaster: He didn't know him. He didn't recognize any of these people. A sudden desire to run came over him. Why was he so afraid? This was his army.

The man consulted another list: "You were at Red Streams, correct?"

 _I died there_. "Yes, sir." he said.

The quartermaster clicked his tongue: "What a mess." He shook his head: "We won, if that interests you. Good to see you have survived. Well, in a manner of speaking."

"Yes, sir." Gael shivered suddenly. He took a calming breath: "Can I leave now, sir?"

His opposite leaned forward. There was a sense of amusement in his expression: "Whereto, if I may ask?"

Gael didn't like this at all. "Home." he said. He was ignoring the consequences; he just wanted to leave. His dread grew when he saw the man shake his head.

„You can't go I'm afraid. Why would you? You are a soldier. You have sworn service to the kingdom, have you not? "

"Yes, and I have died for it!" Gael almost shouted; he couldn't believe it: "Isn't that service enough?"

The quartermaster cackled: "You've died once and already claim retirement? Sorry my friend; it is not the world we live in. But 'live' is such a relative concept, isn't it? Now, be a good Undead and report in at the barracks with the rest of you lot, will you!"

* * *

 **This has become a very ambitious project for me. I wanted to write Gael's story, and then I kind of realized that that would be impossible without touching on some major developments and characters in the world of Lothric. So I'm going to see how far I can spin this with my current conception of the lore. I'll try to make it as reasonable as possible.**

 **If anyone has concrete ideas about the painters' relation to Lothric (both Friede and Ariandel), I'd be really thankful for some input, since that is a part which I still struggle with.**


	2. Undead

**Undead**

* * *

In a way, not much had changed, really.

There were still early awakenings, shouted commands, muffled complaints. They still had to perform sword practice and guard duty; he still went to sleep in a crammed bedroom in the barracks, albeit a different one than before. The food was miserable as ever, and the weather even uncommonly dreary. Lothric worked the same as it had for years.

But there were the looks.

Gael noticed them everywhere he went; they prickled on the back of his neck constantly. Sometimes they were simply curious, but these he had quickly learned were the exception: most showed open disgust and fear. Some felt like silent accusations; that he wasn't like them, that he was still walking. Everyone seemed to know. And most looked away when he stared back. He was determined not to let it faze him, but he now had to steel himself every time he left the barracks.

These looks were bad, but it was almost worse when he was back inside the barracks with his fellow soldiers. Whenever he crossed eyes with one of them, they spoke not of contempt, but of despair and defeat. You wouldn't see slumped shoulders, or any of them hanging their heads, or any other outward signs; but the looks were always there. He wondered whether he looked like that, too. Probably. The Others had to recognize him somehow, since there were no outward signs of his condition as far as he could tell. But this air of defeat, it seemed to be common to them all.

There were some exceptions. A soldier in his opposite bunk, Geirm, was almost cheerful about his condition. He claimed to be the oldest Undead among them, and he saw his many rebirths as a way of spiting some higher power or other. Sometimes it was the world itself that had tried and failed to kill him- his first death had been in a landslide-, other times it was the royal family they were serving: "Let that old fart of a king chase his precious immortality; he'll never get to the same level as me base farmhand. Has to irk him somethin mighty!"

Then there was the one who had drawn patrol duty along with him this night. Knut, his name was. He had the pallid skin and blue eyes of a Northerner, and those eyes never showed any sadness. In fact, they very seldom showed emotion at all. Most of the time, he seemed to be somewhere far away, though he always performed what was required of him. He rarely talked either, which suited Gael fine. He had his own thoughts to dwell on.

Walking the battlements, with Knut carrying the torch, they passed several guards in their little alcoves, who watched them warily. None of them were Undead. Gael suspected they had orders to watch them just as well as any possible intruder. They might still wear the same uniforms, but that didn't mean much. Nobody bothered much to conceal it: even though there were hundreds of Undead in the barracks by now, they were only ever sent out in small groups; so that they were outnumbered wherever they went. They were treated like the enemy, Gael thought wearily. Why did they still keep him and his fellow soldiers here, then?

It had very quickly become apparent that his case was by no means singular. Upon reporting in the barracks, he had met several soldiers who had died in the same battle at the streams, though he didn't recognize any of them- he didn't know whether to be glad about that. But there were also men like Geirm, some of whom had first been reborn as long ago as twenty years, and as far away as Courland. There were archers, pike men, swords, even peasants who had only ever wielded a pitchfork in their life. They had all been shepherded together here for some purpose. No one had yet bothered to tell them what that was, but then it wasn't that hard to guess. The quartermaster had put it best: Dying once simply wasn't enough anymore. The king of Lothric, or his army commanders, must have realized the potential of an army that could fight for them as often as they chose. No, Gael reflected grimly, fighting wasn't the word. Getting slaughtered more likely; used as re-usable cannon fodder. None of them were knights, after all; they had all been infantrymen, and now they could simply fulfil that role more effectively.

None of them had any illusions about their situation, and if there had been some in the beginning, they had quickly been dispelled by their officers. Strikingly, none of these had died before. They didn't make a secret of what they thought of their underlings: the fact that they had died made them second-class soldiers at best, because how much fighting spirits could they have left after that? Among them, the quartermaster Gael had met after his awakening was one of the better ones. He didn't treat them any kinder, but at least he seemed to be determined to work with what he was given, which resulted in them receiving a lot of training under his watch. It kept their mind and body occupied at least.

They had reached the outer wall. The sky had turned dark with clouds, so much so that Gael could barely see twenty feet in front of him. Theirs was the only light on this stretch, as they had drawn the first shift of the night. While Knut lit the scattered sconces with his torch, he fell back a little and looked over the battlements, letting his eyes wander across the darkness. To the south, a silver shimmer indicated the sea. His eyes turned eastward, towards the mountains over which he had come to Lothric back then. It seemed like a very long time ago.

"Better forget it."

Gael started at the voice. He glanced at his partner. Knut kept walking. "What?"

"Escaping." The soldier lit the next sconce. "Forget it."

Gael caught up to him. "I wasn't thinking of…"

Knut turned towards him. His expressionless eyes shone in the torchlight: "Friend, I've been here a while longer; I've seen that look lots of times. 'Get out the next chance you get; this isn't where you belong', is what you're thinking. Am I right?"

To have it spelled out before him like that by this soldier he scarcely knew was something very different than thinking it to himself in the nights. It was the fact that everyone seemed to just _accept_ it. As if from a black pit, Gael felt anger rise within him; anger directed at everything, but it found a specific target. "And if so, _friend_?" he questioned. "What do you care?" Part of him- the dominant part at the moment- hoped that his partner would take offence and begin a quarrel, if for no other reason than to have to think about something else for once.

Knut didn't seem fazed. "If you really want to leave, you will manage it somehow." he stated. "You could throw yourself off the wall and hope that you'll wake up before they find you." He nodded across the wall: "There's a settlement for Undead not far from here, if you want to try your luck there. But you won't have it any better there than you do here, I believe."

"I don't care about some settlement!" In the back of his mind he knew that Knut was probably trying to be helpful, but right now he simply presented a vent for Gael's frustration. "I don't care about any of this; I just want to go home! That's where I belong, not to some old king who can slaughter me over and over again like a sheep!"

"No, you certainly don't belong here. You don't belong anywhere; you're an Undead."

There it was; the dreaded word that kept creeping into his thoughts. Undead. Undead. Lucky to walk again. Freak. Cursed. And not truly a part of the world of the living. Gael shook his head, attempting to dispel these implications he had tried with all his might to supress. The anger had suddenly left him. "No. I have a family…" He couldn't go on and his voice failed him.

A gloved hand rested on his shoulder. "I'm sorry for you, friend. Truly, I am. But our condition- people just don't shrug it off like that. We frighten them. You see how the other guards look at us; do you really want to see that look on your family's faces?" The words were daggers, boring into him mercilessly. "If you still have some responsibility left, you'll spare them that ordeal. And yourself, too."

They had drawn to a stop. Some distance away, another pair of guards was coming towards them, but Gael hardly saw them. His sister's laughing face danced before his eyes; her braid swinging in the strong winds that swept over the cliffs of Astora, mere days before he had left for the High Wall. But her eyes weren't laughing; they had that frightened look now. It hurt more than the spear had.

Knut drew him onwards, before the guardsmen reached them. He was vaguely aware of them staring at him, but he couldn't tell if it was the usual look of disgust or if they were wondering about the tears he felt in his eyes. Knut had tactfully drawn ahead of him again. A tear ran on Gael's cheek, and he saw it fall onto his breastplate. In his haze, he seized that image and held on to it. Wasn't that proof that he was still human? He was, despite everything. Knut, the quartermaster, they all saw something in him that simply wasn't there.

Gael wiped his eyes. Knut was wrong. He did belong into this world. He did not feel like dying had changed him into a different person, let alone something less than human. He could not accept this being cast upon him, like everyone else seemed to have done. Nor would his sister accept it, he suddenly felt certain. The look on her face had just been his imagination, and now he felt ashamed for it. She was better than that, better than all the people in Lothric. His breathing evened out. He was still breathing, too.

They kept walking, with neither Knut nor Gael making any attempt at speaking further. To the lonely tower that marked the end of their guard, and back the way they came. Paradoxically, Gael felt elated. Dwelling on all this in solitude had done him no good, he realized; it made everything look far worse than it was. In some strange way, he felt grateful to his partner. He had something and someone worth living for. And Knut… He re-played their conversation in his mind.

"Who is it?" he finally asked.

Knut looked at him blankly.

Gael pressed on: "You were speaking from experience, weren't you?"

His partner shrugged, but for a second, there seemed to be a little live returned to his face: "My daughters. Beautiful little girls; they loved to sing. Never let them see me like this." He paused, looking over the wall, towards the sea. "Was better that way."

Gael swallowed: "You never once saw them after you became Undead? Even if you had the chance now?"

Knut glanced at him, with those absent blue eyes. "Why would I? They're long dead by now."

The rest of the walk back to the barracks passed in silence.


	3. Here's to Survival

**Here's to Survival**

* * *

"High! Low! Block! Not so lacklustre!"

Gael swung his sword low as the yard rang to Wyk's shouted commands. It was swept aside. He parried a high blow, feigned a strike from above and abruptly changed the angle to a sideways swing. At the last second, the other blade came up to meet his, steel ringing.

His partner danced back. "Nice try." Yaevinn grinned, advancing with his shield raised. Gael swallowed a retort and waited for his move. It came, predictably, as a quick thrust, which left him in no danger, yet also unable to retaliate. The next couple of exchanges developed much the same. Gael gritted his teeth. The young Undead always played it safe, and he was getting better at it, too. Luckily, Wyk was focusing on another pair of soldiers, so they weren't shouted at for the moment.

Finally, Gael managed to break his guard with a frustrated shield bash, and an instant later, Yaevinn was on the ground with the tip of the practice sword on his chest. The Undead grunted: "Yield. Damn you, I really thought I'd tire you this time." He inspected his breastplate, were the sword had left a dent. "That is, what, the fifth time you've killed me now?"

"Sixth. You're lucky this isn't real steel." Gael replied. He pulled his partner back up to take the edge of his words.

It had been up for debate. The quartermaster, whose name they had not learned until weeks into him drilling them, had been thinking aloud whether he should but real honed blades in their hands, seeing how accidental casualties were of no greater consequence to them. In the end he had decided against it, to everyone's relief. But since then they had also learned that Wyk was gifted with a rather dark sense of humour, so for all they knew, he might have been joking that time.

A shadow glided over them. Gael looked up just in time to see a dark winged silhouette against the sun before it vanished behind a guard tower. A distant screech told him that the dragon, and presumably its rider, had passed over the outer wall. He shook his head: no matter how often you witnessed it, these giant lizards passing overhead like giant birds of prey would never be a normal thing.

"I wish I were highborn." Yaevinn stated, his eyes searching the sky for the flying beast to return. "Imagine riding one of them, instead of having to constantly look up so they don't roast you." As far as they knew, no Lothric dragon had ever roasted someone inside the walls, but that didn't make the fire-breathing flying lizards any less impressive.

Gael glanced at his partner. In moments like these, he never knew what to make of him. Being on the back of one of these things, hundreds of feet above the ground, was not one of his hearts desires. But then Yaevinn had a very different attitude to most things, he had found. Lean, black haired and dark of skin, he was one of the latest recruits, and also the youngest. His demeanour screamed of a youth's unbridled energy that even death hadn't been able to take away. As a result, his arrival had made the barracks a lot livelier, waking many of the Undead out of their stupor. Gael loved him for it.

For all that, however, the youth had been helpless in the yard at first. He was extremely skinny and was overall a rather clumsy fighter, having never used a sword before coming here, as he confessed. Wyk had picked up on that rather quickly, sending him into duels whenever possible, not that it helped him master the sword any better. Nonetheless, Gael had found his match-ups with him enjoyable, and he did his best to teach him how to use a shield at least, with some visible success.

However, it turned out that as soon as you handed him a bow of any kind, Yaevinn became rather frightening: Of their group, he was the only one who had managed to hit the bullseye at 100 meters, and from several angles no less. He had honed his skills hunting in the woods of Farron, he told them. Gael wondered what had killed him; he refused to tell of it.

Wings flapped as another dragon flew overhead, in the same direction as the first. More heads looked up this time: though the Dragon Knights were Lothric's far famed weapon, there were still comparatively few of them, and most were scattered all across the realm. To see two fly by so close together was extremely unusual. The muttering started once the third flying lizard appeared above the red towers. For once, Wyk made no attempt to silence them; he had his neck craned upwards just like everyone else. Gael's first assumption was that the dragonriders had to be flying into battle, though he could not imagine whereto: Luckily for all of them, there had been no imminent wars to be fought. Red Streams had ended with Lothric's victory, effectively quelling the formerly-free-city's rebellion. For the moment, there was no one left to oppose the High Wall. Or so they thought, right up until the moment that their sergeant entered the yard.

Despite him being their direct superior, he was the officer they saw the least. It was no secret that he wasn't here by choice; it seemed he had been degraded after some failure in the field and had been waiting to be reinstated ever since. That was how the gossip had it, anyway, and his general demeanour appeared to confirm it: it was clear that he hated his post; he hated his charges even more, and mostly he let the other officers of the barracks take care of them. Only whenever someone with a higher rank called, he was suddenly there, all smiles and bows and efficiency.

He was not smiling now at all. He practically ran into their practice session, puffing from exhaustion. Indeed, Gael noted, his face wore an almost feverish expression. The clangs of metal around the yard ceased. The sergeant come to a halt and took a second to gain his breath. Then he pointed at them: "I need the ten least useless of you!" he called, still hoarse.

Nobody was anxious to move. A few of them glanced at Wyk, but the quartermaster had quietly shrunk back into the shadows as soon as he had spied his colleague. Gael suspected he intended to enjoy the spectacle. The sergeant's manic gaze jumped from one to the other, waiting for a reaction. After a while, someone in the back spoke up: "Where are we going, exactly?"

The sergeant waved his hand vaguely: "Doesn't concern me. Now hurry it up, the party is already assembling at the gate! If I don't see ten hands up now, you'll all get flogged, and I'll make certain it will not be a quick death this time!"

Gael exchanged a glance with Yaevinn, and after a moment he raised his hand. He hoped it looked reluctant enough, though in truth it would be a relief to leave these walls. _And perhaps_... A second later, Yaevinn's hand joined his, then Gren's, until all of fifteen hands were up. The sergeant didn't even count. "Good, yes. Get yourselves some real weapons and hurry to the Kings Gate! Quickly now!" His tone left no room for arguing. The yard filled with cast-away sparring swords as every Undead hurried to their armoury. The calls of "Hurry!" followed them inside as they ran past quartermaster Wyk, who was watching them with an almost amused expression on his sharp features.

"What is he in such a hurry about, now?" Yaevinn asked as he strapped an ash wood longbow to his back. "You would think the enemy is at the gates by how he's screaming."

"Does it matter?" another Undead interjected. "Better humour him for now; we'll see soon enough. I don't fancy a pole in my chest."

It took less than five minutes for all fifteen of them to be back in the yard fully armed. Apparently not quick enough for the sergeant, who was pacing up and down by then. He practically shoved them out into the streets. There were a few calls of "Good luck!" from their comrades and one breathless "Don't you dare embarrass me!" from the sergeant, and then they were off.

The party that indeed already awaited them at the gate was larger than expected: by Gael's first count, there were close to a hundred soldiers assembled, not counting the mounted lances. They were led by a tall knight in blue plate astride a huge war horse. A massive greatsword was slung across his back. He noted their arrival with a short nod. The Undead received a few curious looks by the assembled soldiers, but there was no time for introductions: No sooner had their little party gotten in line than the knight in front shouted a command and the giant gates creaked open. They marched out at a brisk pace, with the risen sun lighting their way over the stone causeway. Still nobody told them where they were headed. Gael wondered what could warrant all this haste. Ahead, the foot soldiers were talking constantly and surprisingly their officers didn't bother to intervene. They must have been marshalled just as hastily as they had been.

"Do you think they know where we're going?" Yaevinn asked to no one in particular.

Nuri shrugged: "Let's ask them." The Undead handed Gael his sword and jogged further up the column. After a few minutes he returned: "Nobody knows for certain. But it seems we'll be trekking across the mountains."

Gael frowned: "Why? Are we at war with someone?"

"They don't know; all they've got is rumours. One said he overheard the big knight speak of some beast. And apparently some freehold across the mountains has called for aid- or so they claim." Nuri said, shrugging. "The two might be related or not, or completely made up. As I said, nobody knows for certain."

"Some beast, hm? A beast that an entire freehold can't deal with on its own?" Yaevinn's grin was sardonic: "Let's stay at the back for as long as we can."

Someone behind them actually laughed. "Good luck with that. I see us right up there in the vanguard."

Gael didn't partake in the discussion. His thoughts were on a different matter: the route across the mountains would lead them very close to Astora- home. It would present his best chance to get out at last. Except- what if it was that freehold in question? He shoved that thought aside. It was just rumours. Most likely it was just another rebellion somewhere.

And no beast he knew of would be able to breach Astora's walls.

* * *

They marched all morning, the knights on their horses setting a gruesome pace. Their group kept up as best they could. It was easier for them than their fellow soldiers, who were tiring quickly under the weight of their armour; one of the advantages of being undead seemed to be that one didn't tire so easily. Gael conversed with Gren and Yaevinn on the way, but half his mind was still trying to decide whether to risk absconding. He would feel bad leaving his- friends, he supposed, like that, but he had to think of himself first.

Then the blue knight took the left turn at the Crossroads, the road that Gael would have taken, and put paid to those thoughts. He tensed up: They were marching on the ancient city. There was nothing else of note in this direction. Others had noticed it as well. Gren confessed that he had always wanted to see Astora, and Yaevinn made some jest about its priests, but Gael could not bring himself to be happy about their destination. Whatever the reason of their hasty march, it couldn't be good, he felt. He remembered the dragonriders. Had they been headed the same way? What could compel all of them to take flight? He asked none of these questions aloud. The road ahead snaked through the valleys, the snowy mountains looming overhead like giant sentries. This was not how he had imagined seeing them again.

Then they climbed a hilltop, and there it was.

Before them, Astora rose atop its huge grey cliffs, older than memory. Below its walls, the ocean lapped at the basalt; a dull green that stretched as far as the horizon. Yet Gael had no eye for it. He could only stare in shock, rooted to the spot. Nuri cursed silently.

The proud city lay in ruins. Its tall towers lay low, snapped like trees by some monstrous storm. A storm that had engulfed the city in its entirety: A short way from where the road ended by the gates, a huge part of the wall had crumbled together with its cliffside, fallen into the ocean beneath. From there, a trail of destruction snaked through the streets; or what was left of them, for where the houses had once stood there was only rubble. The dome by the eastern gate was missing its entire roof and hard partly caved in where its pillars had given way. A cloud of ash and smoke hung above it all like a shroud of death.

The company had drawn to a sudden halt. "What in the world happened here?!" Gren voiced what everybody was thinking.

Dragons were circling above the smoke, scales glinting in the sun, their riders small black dots on their backs. More were perched atop the walls; all in all a dozen or more, just watching and waiting. It was a fearsome show of strength. But after the initial shock, Gael finally realized there were no sounds of fighting.

 _What could do this? And why?!_ His first manic thought was that Lothric had finally sent its dragons to burn down the city, but even to him it sounded illogical. There had been no army movements, no declaration of war, nothing. And even then, the dragons' fire would have taken weeks to cause all this destruction. This was something darker, beyond any man's control. Even from their vantage point he could feel the cold above the city, like some lingering evil presence in the smoke. It made the hairs on his neck stand on end.

"Are you alright?"

He realized that the party had begun to move again and mechanically fell in line beside his comrade, without answer. Nothing was alright. So many people must have died amidst the destruction; what if…? He couldn't bear to think of it, though the thoughts kept creeping back. He had to make sure she was safe; Gida had to be safe, she had to be. The knight seemed to be setting a snail's pace all of a sudden. Gael wanted to scream at him to hurry; couldn't he see what had happened? In the corner of his eye, he saw that Yaevinn kpt glancing at him with some concern, but the Undead had the grace to respect his silence.

When finally the Lothric soldiers reached the gates, they were opened for them immediately. The portcullis was still manned by blue robed Astora guards. They looked shaken, clinging to their lances and watching them warily as their column marched past. Their mood was understandable, given that only a dozen meters to their right, the wall had simply ceased to exist and the gate they were guarding was for all intents and purposes useless now. The scattered stones, mixed with several collapsed buildings hindered them in their march, and twice they had to stop to clear the rubble before moving on. Gael thought of separating from the rest to be faster on his own, but they were already following the destruction to the heart of the city, where he would have headed as well, so he stayed in line.

The Central Market was a great square of polished marble and onyx, half a mile in length, with warrens of stalls across its expanse and lined with brick houses. It had been the pride of the city, shining in the sun on a bright day, the light reflected from the gilded turrets rising to all sides of the square. Now the turrets missed their tips, the marble had cracked and several houses lay scattered across the square as rubble. People clambered over the stones; helpers trying to clear the square or merchants searching for their buried possessions.

The tall knight who led them had not uttered a word since entering the city. His mouth was a grim thin line as he marched them onwards. The town hall on the far end was miraculously still standing, though it was missing two of its turrets and its stones displayed several black spots that looked like scorch marks. Still, the trail of destruction seemed to end here, and a crowd had gathered at the bottom of its steps, among them a few figures in the clear white robes of the Way of White who were trying to raise their voices above the clamour. It was these that the knight headed towards, and after a short exchange accompanied by heavy gesturing, he followed one of them into the building.

Gael and the other soldiers stood amidst the crowd uncertainly. Lacking oversight of the situation, no one had yet given them orders what to do. When it became clear after a few minutes that their commander would not return soon, the group began to scatter as most of them joined the native groups to get their account of what had happened. Gael's eyes were drawn by two men carrying a third up the stairs on a stretcher. A moment later, another pair left the building and vanished behind the crowd. The town hall must have been repurposed as an emergency hospital for the wounded- or a mortuary. Gael froze, cold dread creeping up his spine. When he started to move, nobody called him back. His mind numb, Gael climbed the steps, having to concentrate to set one foot before the other. He dreaded what he would see in there, yet he had to look, even if it meant finding the cold eyes of someone he loved.

He only had to push past a single pair of distracted guards to gain entry; luckily, Lothric's colours still commanded respect. The air within was stale. His eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim light. What he saw was not comforting: The great hall was usually a place of desks, scribes and busy work. Now, everything had been shoved to the walls to make room for dozens on dozens of blankets and stretchers, and the busy work was done by healers and clerics and Silent Brothers. There seemed to be far too few of them, against an uncountable number of moaning or deathly silent figures on the floor.

His attention was drawn by a golden shimmer in the back of the hall, strangely out of place in its purity. It seemed to grow as he watched. Something made him walk towards it. A faint warmth enveloped him as he drew closer, emanating from the radiant light, like a sun rising among the sickbeds. Gael's feet became faster. A small shimmer of hope stirred within him. The strange cold outside had no place here, he could feel it.

And there she was, in the centre of the glow. The red and white robe of a healer flowed down her back. Her hands rested on the chest of a wounded man as she recited one of the old tales in a quiet, gentle whisper. Gael stood mesmerized, unable to move. The light grew brighter, soothing, enveloping her figure, until the man's pained expression softened and his breathing evened out. When the sun set, it left behind only the memory of warmth- and the healer, glowing herself, it seemed to him. She closed her tome and gathered a handful of blankets to cover the healed in his sleep.

Then she turned and saw him standing there, her almond eyes meeting his. She stared at him for a moment, frozen. Then the surprise on her face turned into something else, something almost joyful. "Brother!" she cried, and in a heartbeat she was running to him. "You're here!" Though still smaller than him, her embrace was fierce, as if he was the one who had just risen from the dead, not her. Gael pressed her to him. He didn't think he was capable of letting go.

He did, eventually. His eyes sought hers. "Gida. I thought…" he broke off.

She looked right into him, as she so often did. "I know. I don't know how, but I am alive. The gods must have seen fit to spare me."

Gael nodded, a lump in his throat. "Wise gods they are." he managed. He made a silent promise to never again miss a prayer. His sister looked radiant in her healer's garb, as if the miracles she cast had an afterglow within her. Yet now he also noticed the deep shadows under her eyes, and the way her hands trembled ever so slightly. "You look like you need some rest." he said, concerned.

"I'm fine, really. It's- it's _good_ to see you. It was the only thing that made me come back here; knowing you wouldn't be lying here, that you were safe in Lothric. But here you are, and I can't tell you how much I missed that old face of yours." She managed a little smile.

It was the most welcome sight of the day. "Here we both are, sis. But what in the Gods' name did this?"

The smile vanished. She shook her head, suddenly pale: "I never saw. It came so suddenly I don't think anyone really did. I was at home when the sentries blew their horns. There was a loud crash, I ran out into the street and there was fire and smoke everywhere. And then- there was something in the smoke." She shuddered: "There was an eye, a huge yellow eye, and it looked right at me. Gael, you have never seen anything like it; I couldn't move while it looked, it was like I was frozen. It hated me, I could feel it; it hated everyone..." She broke off. "I've never been so afraid."

Gael hugged her, feeling her tremble. He was lost for words.

"Then there was lightning- the Way of White. It turned to them and I could move, and I did; I ran here, like everyone else. I thought they drove it off." Her mouth went grim: "They are lying there. They were long dead when they brought them in."

Gael had not even noticed the priests' robes. The clean white cloth was unrecognisably stained a dark red. Some still clutched their talismans in frozen fingers. Gida had fallen silent. He took her hand, clenched into a fist. "There was nothing you could do, little sis." he said quietly.

"I did help after, when it was gone. My talisman is lost, but I've borrowed one from a cleric too wounded to heal anyone, and I've not left the hall since. We heard that thing the entire time; it must have been right outside. But then it just stopped, and they started carrying more and more people inside. The talk is that a knight slew the beast."

Gael had gathered that someone must have put an end to it. Though the entire thing was clearly far from over for Gida. "That is good to hear. And from what I've seen, you are doing amazing work here, sis. There are far too few healers, it seems. Soldiers on the other hand are abounding, though we seem pretty useless now."

It finally made her smile again. "Idiot. You are anything but useless. And I think the Way of White will be grateful for every man you brought. They are still not convinced that this beast is really gone." She had lowered her voice at the last part, not to disturb her patient.

"I thought you said it was slain?"

"I didn't _see_ it die. From what a guard has told me, they are still searching for its body, and no one has been able to find that knight, either. The ones who claim to have seen him kill the beast seem to grow quieter by the hour." She hugged herself, as if for warmth: "Besides, you can still _feel_ it, can't you? It's not as strong as when it stared at me, but there is still this _hate_."

Gael had felt it, too; the cold. Even in here it was still unnerving. His hand fell to the hilt of his longsword. "If it does come back, we will be ready for it. And it won't just be me with a little sword, either; there are…"

"There you are!" someone called behind him. When Gael turned around, he saw Yaevinn stride towards them. "Better come back to the group. Our noble knight has called everyone back together. We're to fight the rubble now, I'm guessing." He glanced at Gida: "No exceptions, not even for pretty ladies like this, my friend." He made a quick bow in her direction and strode back outside.

Gida looked after him, amused. "You make interesting friends still, I see. Well, you heard him; there's no time for pretty me!" She gave him a light shove: "Out with you; help our people. Lord knows we need every help we can get."

Gael looked at her exhausted face. He needed to tell her so much. But he could see there was no sense in it while they were both needed elsewhere. "Where can I find you afterwards?"

She glanced back: "I don't think I will leave this hall today." Her eyes filled with pain. "So many wounded. I do what I can for them- but it's just not enough."

He clasped her hand. "They are in good hands, little sister; the best there are. When they walk out those doors, it will be praising the saint who gave them light in this hour." He meant every word of it; he had never been more proud of her than now.

Gida smiled tiredly and waved her hand: "Out with you already." And talisman in hand, she returned to her wounded. As Gael left the hall, her warm, hopeful glow lit up behind him.

* * *

The first light of dawn had appeared above the rooftops by the time they were finally allowed some rest. Every bone in Gael's body was aching. He and his comrades had spent the entire night clearing the streets of rubble and standing guard in front of the houses. Whatever had happened to the beast, it had not returned, but there was still plenty for them do to. The city watch was hopelessly understaffed, and the night-time streets brimmed with looters. Some of those they caught looked like they had lost everything themselves, with nothing left to them but the clothes they wore. Amidst the many wounded in the town hall and the half-dead people they were sometimes able to pull out of the rubble however, there was no compassion left for these men; so the ones they did catch ended up in the deep salt cells, which had survived the destruction. Gael was truly weary of it all when one of their knights came up to them and permitted them a few hours rest before the expected chaos of the next day.

When he returned to the town hall, he found it full to bursting, with stretchers and people crammed so close together that there was almost no room to move in between them. Many figures were covered with blankets, and the stench of death hung in the air. He tried not to look at too many of them. He found Gida sat by one of the walls, fallen asleep next to one of her patients, a child of no more than ten years with a hideous fresh scar across his cheek. Both were breathing evenly in their sleep. She started awake when he touched her shoulder and looked around in confusion. When she saw the boy next to her breathing, she sighed and leant her head back against the wall.

Gael felt a fierce pride of his sister, who had saved so many lives today. But when she clasped her talisman and started towards the next person, he had to pull her back. She looked at him, her lids closing from exhaustion. "Let me go." she whispered.

Gael was firm: "You've done all you could. Take some rest, before they have to carry you out of here too, little sis." She would work herself to death if it meant helping more people, he knew. It was the way she was.

But for once, she listened to him. She was half asleep again already. After he helped her gather her things, they left the hall by the front door, her leaning on him and yawning. When Gael started in the direction of their old house, she shook her head: "No." she mumbled. "Street is gone. Go to house on Winter Street with- red door…" Her head fell heavy on his shoulder. Gael gathered her up in his arms, surprised at how little she weighed. He turned the other way, past the destroyed turrets of the square. His tired mind barely registered her words and that their home was gone.

Luckily her directions turned out sufficient. The house with the red door stood on a street left mostly intact. As such, it was guarded by soldiers, but they let them pass once they saw his armour. Gael knocked. After a moment, the door opened and an old, wrinkled face stared out at him suspiciously. What little hair it had left was snow white, the lines on its brow to many to count. The ancient man's frown softened when he saw Gida, though, and he clicked his remaining teeth and waved them inside. His house was one floor of stone and wooden beams; nothing of it spoke of fortune, though most of the city folk would have envied it now. The old man didn't say a word, but led him into a small bedroom. Gael laid his sister on a bed that looked as old as their host, without her waking. With some relief, he stripped off his armour and placed sword and shield by the wall.

The old man, leaning on his cane, came back with a jug of water. It was the most welcome sight in the world. Gael drained it with greedy swallows, feeling some life return to his body. "Thank you." he said to his host. He did not know how he was related to his sister, but she seemed to trust him, so he was resolved to do the same. It would not do to reject hospitality where you found it. The ancient one nodded gruffly and shuffled back, to his own bed, presumably. Gael dragged out a chair and seated himself beside the bed, finally able to close his eyes. He gave his sleeping sister one last look. It had scarcely been a day since the practice yard, but it seemed a world away.

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 **I love how you can write a story around a single item description with these games, vague though it may be. Hope you enjoyed this; I certainly enjoyed writing it. Here's to more in the future.**


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